


it’s the rebirthing that shreds the womb (a lesson in umbilical cords)

by lordbobby



Series: if you tell me it was intentional (i'll tell you i was inevitable) [1]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: A Series Of Drabbles In The Making, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22806412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordbobby/pseuds/lordbobby
Summary: It’s always come to this. Every moment of pain and anguish and vengeful thought and nightmare and night spent biting your skin hoping to find something different underneath has come to this.Alternate titles include: "you ever realize how intentional you need to be to pick the worst possible option in a game? you ever realize how fucking hard you have to go feral to really go feral?" and "I think a lot about how Sidestep is a villain name choice and god do I sleep at night."
Series: if you tell me it was intentional (i'll tell you i was inevitable) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639552
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	it’s the rebirthing that shreds the womb (a lesson in umbilical cords)

**Author's Note:**

> this bit is just for me, yes. a set of series of drabbles meant to stretch those writing bones. thank you in advance. more to come.

You were always going to lean into it, even if you didn’t know. There was too much anger, too much leftover tension, and forgiveness isn’t in your repertoire. No, you’d been overwritten too many times to be forgiving, let alone forgiven. And you got tired of pretending you cared enough to pray, or do better, you got tired of fighting the urge, the inevitable pull in your gut that said _even if you do this now, even if you win for this, you won’t later._ There was a fight that couldn’t be fought in the light.

You just had to die to see it.

Mortum hadn’t understood at first, when _your boss_ had specific ideas of how things were to look. You had an eye, and you trusted her to bring it to fruition. The blood splatter across the helmet was your suggestion, but she made the paint reflective against the matte black of your helm. You asked for a cape that could shift colors, and she provided you with a glimmering thing that could hide and highlight in one. You’d always need to be able to return to the shadows, but you were visible, now. You refused to go unseen, demanded it of you.

It was her that suggested the red on the insides of the gloves, to mark the blood in more places than one. What resulted was a thematic suit that could, that _should_ give the most familiar Rangers pause, even for a second. But a second was what you needed. “A tactic.” Magpie had told Mortum that evening, sipping her drink in pause. “Most Rangers don’t have masks, emotional or physical. They wear it on their sleeve.”

“Dastardly.” She’d mused, but there was a point of intrigue in her eyes. Then, concern. “Are you sure you want to work for someone so emotionally… how to word it— aggressive?”

You know what it is. “Manipulative.” You don’t shy away from it, simply shrug your (not your) shoulders and let your hair frame your jawline with a mild flick of the wrist. “I think they’re ready to do what it takes to make their stance known.”  
“Clearly.” Mortum had pronounced. “But is that wise for you? For your safety?”

Well, _no._ But Magpie was just a body, and she’d need an express excuse to not be put under suspicion at such an event. Tit-for-tat, you supposed.

 _Always the dramatic,_ Ortega said. About your long rooftop talks, about your stupid vigilante speeches, about your refusal of the Rangers (their refusal of you). They couldn’t have been more correct.

The blood on your helmet reflects the fires of the Museum, buried underneath you, an old you, a figment of you. _“Who are you?”_ Herald whispers, and you tell him. You tell him before you tell yourself. _It’s always come to this. Every moment of pain and anguish and vengeful thought and nightmare and night spent biting your skin hoping to find something different underneath has come to this._

“How _dare_ you,” Herald had said, like it was a personal offense, “how dare you use their name!” Sailing above you with a ripped tuxedo, face twisted into anger. Had Herald ever been photogenic? Here he almost looks contorted in wraith, strong nose wrinkled up, eyes sharp and pointed. You were wearing something far worse. A dastardly grin you couldn’t stop from splitting your face in half. Did the helmet’s distortion mask it? Mask the utter glee in your voice that you can’t care to hide? You didn’t care, because that was the _thing._ You didn’t give a single shit.

“The Rangers failed years ago.” You say. “The Rangers failed to save their own, save Anathema,” how it hurts to say their name most days, how it comes out like familiar acid now, “but Sidestep was the product of people believing that anyone, _anything_ could be saved, or be a savior.” Your hand outstretched, claws with splattered red paint curling to mimic a bloodied fist. “Their blood is on your hands. Their death marks the end of an era…”

And you know who’s turn it is. “The age of heroes is long gone. Sidestep lives in the shadows.” You can’t believe how cheeky you’re being. How close you are to telling the truth despite every caution in your head screaming at you to pull back on your punches. You won’t. “Sidestep will survive, because all things once burst into flame are to become ash again, and you may be directly responsible for their death, but you aren’t for what- in their place may—” your hand presses to the car hood, the metal giving to you like tin foil. You’ve never been this strong before. You’ve never been this _alive_ — “grow!”

The car hood tears off like paper, hurtling toward Herald’s face, and by the time he dodges and swoops down for you, you’re grabbing his arm and smashing him onto the front of the car yourself. It’s so _easy._ You feel manic, adrenaline surging in your veins as you crunch the hood around him, and he screams.

“You’ll never be them.” Herald gets it out through clenched teeth. 

“I’m not them.” Oh how strange it was to finally speak the truth. You rear your head back to knock him unconscious, _“I’m better.”_


End file.
